Remember When?
by Authoress24
Summary: {Formerly "Say Something"} "Angel-mine?" Dean drawled, "M'gonna protect you." You smiled softly, "Don't you protect me already, Dean-boy?" He shook his head. "I wanna fix you." You sighed in exasperation, "Dean..." He wasn't havin' it. "Jus' - jus' lemme try?" He bowed his head, eyes glossy. "Please? I-I need to know I made somethin' better..." So you nodded... And confessed.
1. Say Something

_They danced._

_They danced to a song._

A song that wrapped them up in a perfect summary, in and out, all in a matter of less than four minutes. Of course there were little quirks and details – because he had come back, and you did too – but all in all, whoever wrote the song had their facts straight.

You remember the time you and Sam had gotten thrown into that time loop by the Trickster – only it wasn't the Trickster it was the archangel Gabriel – and every day the two of you had to watch Dean die. And every day you two were helpless to stop it.

You sure as shit remember the time Dean had been torn apart by Hellhounds. And you remember – you remember telling yourself that you couldn't cry or break down – even though by then you was shattered in every sense of the word and swept into the trash can – at least not in front of Sammy because if you did, then Sam would see just how weak you were.

_Have to be strong for Sammy!_

You remember how you held Dean in your arms after Sam scared off Lilith. And you remember screaming at him, pleading - begging even.

"_Dean Winchester if you leave me I will _personally_ rampage my way through Hell and drag your good-for-nothin'-lazy ass back out! And then I'm gonna kick your Bon Jovi lovin' ass to next year_!"

But he was gone before you could even hold him.

And you were so angry you started – you started to cry. Sam cried with you and that was the last time – the _only_ time. No more tears. None.

Except that was a lie.

You remember when the three of you buried him – you, Bobby, and Sam. You sobbed yourself dry in Bobby's arms. And Sam lost the light in his eyes.

* * *

><p>You had made plans to barge into Hell and drag the idjit out. You promised him, even. Only you didn't have to.<p>

Cas did it for you.

And you had never been so thankful in your life.

You remember that stupid grin on his face. That ever so famous Dean Winchester smirk. With those candy apple green eyes shinin', and the way they crinkled at the corners, and that jaw line stronger than Superman, and that face that just screamed, "_Baby girl, I was made to break your heart_." (which he had.), and –

And you punched him.

Square in the jaw.

Not too hard. But not too gentle either. He left. But it wasn't his fault. So you decided on a simple bruise. No broken jaw. Just a bruise. (But Dean-boy claimed you damaged somethin' beyond repair – he just didn't know what yet. Sam tripped over himself tryin' to help the poor idjit, positive you gave him a concussion. And Bobby laughed so hard, he had to spit out his beer. And you laughed at Bobby, feelin' smugger than smug.)

You were whole again (sort of). And that was all that mattered. Because it was you, and Sammy, and Dean-boy, and Bobby against the world. Because it was Dean Winchester, and his lethal little brother, and his fiery, kick ass best friend, and (sometimes) his rebellious, other best friend angel, and his drunk-off-his-ass-father figure, accompanying his GED, and give 'em Hell attitude –

And it worked.

You were (sort of) happy again.

You were (sort of) fixed.

* * *

><p>You had always been close to Jo and Ellen. Ever since you and the boys met 'em at the Roadhouse. You had walked in on the sight of both Sam and Dean being held at gun point. (You almost laughed.) After things cleared up, every now and then you'd swing by, (alone) and teach Jo how to shoot better. (Even had a sleepover once.) You'd even help 'em out with the bar whenever the boys decided you were too fabulous to go on a hunt. It didn't hurt nothin'. You got some extra cash. Got a not-by-blood-sister. Got a not-by-blood-mother.<p>

And then Jo and Ellen died.

And you lost your not-by-blood-sister.

And you lost your not-by-blood-mother.

And you were broken again.

And you cried yourself to sleep whenever you got the few hours you did.

Then, things had gotten heavier. Sam had said yes to Lucifer, their plan had failed, and the Apocalypse was gonna go down in a beautiful explosion of fire and "justice".

And then Sammy fell into the cage, Lucifer with him, Michael and Adam with them.

The Apocalypse had been stopped -

_The Winchester Way_.

After Sam fell, Dean left. But you had decided to stay with Bobby.

You were out of the life, just like too-good-to-pick-up-a-damned-phone-Dean.

Bobby gathered up enough money to buy you some books. Textbooks. Lore books. Fictional books. Whatever you wanted. You even went as far as getting a job. It wasn't much, but surprisingly, it paid well: You had become a bar waitress. It hadn't required much either.

You had some experience, and you were hot: Perfectly clear (y/s/c) skin. Shining (y/e/c) eyes. Full, plump lips. Thin and curvy – not too thin, not too curvy. Considerably big bust. That's all really they needed in a waitress, according to one of you co-workers.

And then Sam-the-man-who-was-supposed-to-be-in-Hell-Winchester showed up on Bobby's porch one night.

And you handed in you resignation papers the next day.

* * *

><p>You remembered the night Bobby got shot. You had been filled with mortification, and anxiety, and anger, and – and hope. Dean had been so sure Bobby wouldn't die, you had even begun to believe him.<p>

And then he did die.

Right in front of your eyes.

Sam and Dean had to drag you out of the hospital to keep you from strangling his doctor, earning a few of your fists to the face (and other places). They each took turns comforting you while the other went to say goodbye. The boys were tentative about you going back into the hospital, but they also knew you needed to be alone when you did this.

When you shut the door to Bobby's room, you made sure it was locked. And after a few moments of silence, you cried. You didn't just cry -

No. You cried oceans.

You cried for Ash. You cried for Pamela. You cried for Ellen. You cried for Jo. You cried for Cas. You cried for Bobby. You cried for Sam. You cried for Dean.

You cleaned your snot dripping face, splashed some water on it, straightened yourself out, and left. You kept your eyes hidden from the boys until they lost the red and puffiness.

You were on autopilot for the next few weeks.

* * *

><p>You found yourself appreciating the nights when Dean would stay up into the early hours of the morning, researching himself into the ground.<p>

You remember shooting awake one morning, (too many nightmares at once) and a computer screen was shining bright into the cold air. You knew it wasn't Sam because he was right next to you, sleeping the early mornin' away. You two slept in the same bed on the too-cold-for-any-kind-of-comfort-except-your-warmth-nights.

"Dean…?"

He shut the laptop, but you could still see him due the soft, blue morning light flooding through the windows. It was a gentle blue, indicating it was still early in the morning. 3-ish – maybe 4.

You could just make out his features. Tired and worn, but undeniably handsome. God, you were too in love with the man.

"Yeah?" His voice was gruff, raspy, and slurred with tire. You smiled softly because at least that hadn't changed. "Sweetheart?" He whispered back, and you rolls your eyes. "What'cha gonna start callin' me next, Dean-boy?" You lifted off the bed, careful to avoid Sam. "Angel-mine? Baby girl?" He huffs a short, quiet laugh with a shake of his head as you sat in the chair next to him. "Angel-mine sounds pretty tempting…" It's your turn to laugh now.

"Why the hell are you up, anyway?" He asked, pushing the computer back so he could lean on the desk. You turned to him with a tired smile and hopefully not-so-sad-eyes. "Nightmares – y'know… The usual." He nodded slowly, and sat back up. "Why the hell are you up?" You countered. "You never went to sleep – did ya', Dean?" He set his jaw. "You know I gotta find out what these numbers mean, Y/N. And you know I ain't gonna catch a wink of sleep until I'm satisfied." You frowned, and sat a hand on his shoulder, "Come to bed." You knew that wasn't good enough so you threw in a, "It's cold, Dean. And if you honestly wanna find out what these numbers mean, sleep deprivation ain't gonna help you one bit." He grunted, and you smiled.

You lost your smile (again) when he changed the subject.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his candy apple eyes taking in your weary features. You were the middle child of the three of you - older than Sam, but younger than Dean. You had laugh lines that had long faded into worry lines. You had a few wrinkles (but what kind of hunter didn't?) from frowning too much. You still looked young, but your eyes told a hundred different stories, molded, broken, mended, and coaxed by what you seen. By what you had done.

"I mean… I know obviously none of us are, but do you wanna keep going? I mean, you could – you could leave the life, y'know? I'll fix you up a car, you can take off, go to college, visit during the Holidays–"

"You think I don't wanna be with you anymore." You mumbled softly. (When Dean flinched you knew you were right.) "You think I wanna leave and never look back, but I can't because I'm "in debt" of you, right? Like we have some sort of contract?"

The eldest Winchester brother nodded, and you had to fight the urge to smack him over the head. But instead of calling him an idjit, you asked him the very same question.

"Dean… Are _you_ okay?"

All you got was silence, a long, hard look, and then: "C'mere." And you knew he wasn't.

You scooted your chair over closer to Dean, but he grabbed the handles and pushed it back.

"Get up," he said slowly, with a roll of his eyes, "and come here." He patted his lap. Your eyebrows scrunched up together, concern evident in you features, but you complied. You got up and sat yourself in Dean Winchester's lap.

And there was no fiery, love making passion. There was no love making at all. Not even a kiss.

He just stroked you hair, and cradled you skin with feathery light touches. He held you firm with strong hands, and you allowed him to. You allowed him to cradle you like you was something so precious that if he let go it would disappear. All the while, you strummed you fingertips lightly up and down his back.

"Angel-mine?" Dean called out softly, his voice gruff and tired. He didn't wait for a reply, he just kept talking. "M'gonna protect you," he decided into your hair. You smiled softly against his shoulder. "Don't you protect me already, Dean-boy?" He shook his head, and buried it into the crook of you neck.

"I wanna fix you."

But you sighed in exasperation, "Dean…"

"Jus'–" he interrupted desperately. He wasn't havin' it. "Jus' lemme try? An' – an' if you don' feel any better after, then – then I'll stop. Promise."

You were still hesitant, and then Dean -

"Please," he said again, full on begging. He bowed his head, green eyes glossy, "I need to know that I fixed somethin' - made somethin' better..."

You gave in. Because what would it hurt? This was Dean. Your Dean. The Dean you were in love with. The Dean you hoped was in love with you too.

So silently, you nodded...

And quietly, you confessed.

* * *

><p><em>Merry (late) Christmas! And Happy New Year!<em>


	2. Purgatory

You remember when Dean had been in pulled into Purgatory.

Sam had quit the life a while after – hadn't even bothered to look for his big brother. You were angry with him – even though you knew full and well about their ridiculous promise to "move on".

You remember it clearer than you remember sunshine because this had been the one promise you laughed hysterically at because you knew you'd tear up towns on towns to find a way – a completely non-satanic way, mind anyone who doubted. (_Though, desperate times called for desperate measures, and you weren't above a little soul-selling_.)

But before Sam left, (the Winchesters were notorious for leaving, weren't they?) he somehow managed to talk you into leaving the life too. It wasn't easy. This time around, you were alone. No Bobby. No encouragement. No one to cook for. No one to work for. No one to be there for.

But because you're you, you managed. (_Just barely_.)

You settled down. Got a job. This time, you became a bar tender. Listened to your patrons sob stories – even helped a few of the suicidal ones. Laughed. Enjoyed yourself, sometimes. Even met a guy._ (Jace.._.)

You had an apartment, you had a job, even smuggled a boyfriend. But you weren't happy. And you weren't sad either. Part of you would always belong to _that_ life – the hunting life. A part of you would always belong to Bobby. To Sam. To Ellen. To Jo.

A part of you would always belong to Dean friggin' Winchester.

But you were still functioning.

(_Unlike Dean, Sam would actually give you a call every now and then. So you _did _have _some_ kind of support_.)

* * *

><p>You remember the night you got Sam's phone call.<p>

Dean had gotten himself out of Purgatory, apparently.

You hadn't known how to react. Sam told you where the reunion was going down, and when, but instead of giving your response, you hung up in his face. You had just gotten a normal life, dammit! You had an almost-fiancée. You had a job. You had _friends_. You –

_You had a normal life, dammit!_

And you didn't know if you were ready to give that up. Again. You did, though, want to see Dean again. Just the mention of him sent thousands of used-to-be-dormant memories and emotions running through your body.

* * *

><p>Of course you had ended up going.<p>

This was Sam and Dean Winchester for God's sake. You could never say "no" to coming to see them.

You knocked on the door to the address Sam had given you. "Sam!" You called gruffly, as you began banging on the door. You knew he was here. He told you so. You could even hear shuffling inside. "Sam?" You hissed softer, before just picking the lock, and opening the door.

The first thing you felt was the wind being knocked out of you when an unknown creature collided against your side. You struggled with every ounce of hunter instinct in you, but you were far too rusty, and the thing pinned you down. Only to find out the thing, wasn't a thing.

It was Dean.

Sam was somewhere in the background laughing his butt off.

"You… Idgi –!"

Dean showered you in Holy Water, and some cleaning liquid, before slicing into your arm with a silver knife. "Ow!"

"I'm not a –!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean interrupted those green eyes shinin' with mischief. "I know."

The next thing you knew you were thrown into the air and spun around by a stronger-than-you-remember-Dean Winchester. He set you down with a grin, and hugged you properly. You took in his scent, how he felt, his hair, his scruff. Everything.

And then all the emotions hit you all at once.

How much you missed him. How you were still in love with him. How much you were still in love with him. And then –

"Jace…," you breathed softly, a frown tugging at your lips. Dean looked startled. And Sam looked expectant.

"Jace?" Dean repeated incredulously, his eyebrows furrowed as he shook his head in confusion. "Who's Jace?"

You stumbled over your words, playing with your hands. "Jace is…–"

"Her boyfriend – soon to be fiancée, actually, if I remember right."

Dean glared at Sam, before turning his attention on to you. You jumped, suddenly feeling really weird about the whole thing. "What?" You asked, still playing with your fingers.

He just shook his head, "Nothin'. That's… That's great, Y/N. Really. Awesome, even." He laughed bitterly, "But I'd just like to know how you had managed to balance out having a boyfriend, and hunting? 'Cause I'd really love to know the secret. Is he a hunter too, or somethin'?"

Sam straightened up too, prepared to defend your person as the mood sobered. After all, he convinced you to stop hunting.

"I stopped." You told him, swallowing thickly. "I stopped hunting." You were prepared to get yelled at. And you were prepared to argue for yourself. But you were always to expect the unexpected. And you didn't.

His eyes softened, and his demeanor became sullen. He tilted his head to the side, looking back and forth between you and Sam. "Did you…," he started, his voice gruff as always.

"Did you even _look_ for me?"

You couldn't breathe.

And neither could Sam.

When silence met Dean, he walked away claiming he needed to, "cool down".

You looked over at Sammy, and saw a mirror. Guilt. Remorse.

You two had let Dean Winchester down, again.

_Again._

* * *

><p>You remember when you broke it off with Jace.<p>

You two had been engaged, but you couldn't do that to him. You couldn't do that to him. It wouldn't be fair. Between hunting, and still trying to figure out what you felt for Dean? No. You two wouldn't make it. And you couldn't put him in danger like that.

You were sitting across the table from him, holding hands. His thumb tracing gently across the back of yours. You had been in the gorgeous dress he bought you. Strapless and white, with golden patterns stitched into it. A pair of golden heels to match, too. Your (Y/H/C) hair was pressed, and curled - make up light and pretty. (Thanks to (Y/B/F/N), a woman you had grown seriously close to over the year.) Pink lips. Long eyelashes. Hidden scars. White teeth. Golden eye shadow. Black eyeliner.

For the first time in a long while, you felt beautiful.

Jace had shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes - midnight blue pools that you thought put Cas' to shame. His jaw line game was strong - not stronger than Dean's - and his form was... Well, he had a six pack. He was tall, too. 6 foot even, maybe. His complexion was fair, he had a few scars here and there, but so did you. He was nursing a white button up - the top button undone - with a loosened black tie, black slacks, and black combat boots. The combination was strange, but it fit him just right.

You two talked, and talked, and talked - just like always. About everything and anything. Jace made you laugh, you made him chuckle. He was sweet, nice, there to comfort you when your favorite fictional characters died. He made you sweet tea at 2 in the mornin'. He wrote you poems, and he let you confide. He pushed you on swings, and gave you piggy back rides. He was witty, and intelligent, and when you threw a harmless insult his way, he'd throw one right back at you. Or just hit you with a sarcastic compliment. He'd whisper sweet-nothings to you between kisses, during sex - or when you two "made love" he sang exceptionally to you one day - or just... Whenever he felt like it. Tell you how much he wanted you - how much he needed you. He accepted your dirty sense of humor.

But most of all, he accepted your fucked up mind.

He held you when the nightmares shoved you awake. He'd nuzzle you, and kiss up and down your spine until you relaxed. He'd ask you to confide in him, and you couldn't, he'd let it go, but when you did, he'd give you something to smile about. Sometimes he'd even sing you to sleep.

And as cheesy as your fairy tale had been...

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

You two were moving way too fast, but you were an ex-hunter back then, and you wanted to get as much of that perfection as you could.

Sam and Dean would be waiting outside in the Impala in about 5 minutes, so you had to make this quick.

"Listen," you mumbled softly, looking down at your intertwined fingers. "I…" Jace gave you his undivided attention - something that was apparently "rare with men" - and before you could get the words out, realization dawned on him.

"Is it that 'other life'?" He asked, tilting his head. And you nodded, choking on air. "It's okay, if you need to go, you know that right?" And you nodded again, eyes teary. This wasn't _fair_. To you. To him.

But this was your life.

And when has your life ever been fair?

Your phone vibrated and instinctively you knew it was the Winchesters.

"I have to go now," you mumbled softly, afraid if you spoke too loud, you'd break down into tears. You began to slide the gold diamond ring off your finger, but he stopped you. "Keep it," he flashed that one of a kind smile, and you knew he was hurting inside. "As a… Way to remember me bye." You nodded again. If he said anything else you'd brea–

"And Y/N?"

You turned around to face him, your fingers brushing against the door handle of the restaurant as he walked you out.

"Yeah?"

He kissed you.

His hand cupped your chin, and he kissed you.

And - and it was soft, sweet, gentle. Loving. Warm. Everything like those fairytales told little girls. Sparks flew. And it wwas perfect.

And then you got into the black, 1967 Chevy Impala, and left.

And somehow, deep inside you, you knew, Jace knew you weren't ever gonna come back.

_(That made youncry just a little bit harder.)_

_What kind of hunter were you?_

Going after Prince Charmings, and living fairy tales?

This wasn't you.

Never was. Never will be.

But it had been fun while it lasted.

* * *

><p>When you met Benny, all Hell let loose.<p>

Sam was angry, vivid. But you? You were _done_. Katniss Ever_done with Dean's shit._

You had to take a break. You couldn't stand it anymore. The never ending drama. The tension between you and Dean. The tension between Sam and Dean. It was too much.

And you were just about ready to snap.

But you were a hunter. And you never had breaks. So you stuck around, and kept all the emotions packed tight in your brain.

_He let a vampire out of Purgatory? He joined forces with a vampire? He let the monster live?_

But you had to keep reminding yourself that Dean did what he had to do, and you needed to get over it.

And then there had been a vampire attack. Right around where Benny worked.

How funny, right?

And then, when Dean gave his speech about, "actually being able to trust someone" you were honest-to-God hurt. And Dean said a boatload of rude things to you. (You kept a mental list.) But out of everything he could've said, that… That was a punch to the damned throat. You left to go for a walk after that, leaving the situation up to Martin, Sam, and the Asshat King himself.

"Where you goin', Y/N?"

"For a walk, Dean. What? You don't trust me enough to go for a walk? Think I'll hotwire the Impala, and leave your asses here?"

"We've got a vampire murder, and your goin' for a walk? What kinda hunter _are_ you? Right – a _female_ one."

You turned around so quick, eyes filled to the brim with murder. You were riled up, and you were going to make the sexist shithole scream bloody murder if he didn't shut his damned cake hole.

"Lay off, Martin."

"But Dean–!"

"Lay _off,_ Martin." His voice held an edge to it, letting Martin know he needed to let it go.

You were out the door when you heard, "You shoulda left it in the car…" And then Martin was getting punched in the face by Dean. But you were already down the hallway, and your mind was racing too damn fast.

* * *

><p>You remember when Dean had chosen to complete the Demon Trials, to shut the Gates of Hell, dragging all of the demons on Earth with them, forever.<p>

On the first trail – to kill a Hellhound, and bathe in its blood – he stared you and Sammy in the face, and told the two of you if anyone was going to die, it'd be himself.

You had fought back.

"Well, what if I want you, Dean?" You questioned quietly, dragging the two brothers away from their staring contest. He sighed, and tried to push past you, but you caught him. You grabbed for his arm, but ended up pressing a hand against his abdomen. And until he gave you an answer, you were going to keep fisting his shirt.

The eldest Winchester boy turned to look at you, and even though your head was bowed you knew his eye brows were conversing with his hairline.

"What if…," you started again brokenly. "What if I want to _grow old_ with _you_, Dean?" That wasn't likely. But you had to have something to keep her going in life. Unrealistic as it was, it worked for her.

Your voice had begun to shake with anger. You gave up your life for him. You gave up everything – _everything _– for him, without fault, and here he was telling you he wanted to _die_? No. That just wasn't gonna fly.

How dare he suggest crap like that? How dare he volunteer to die?! How dare he –

(_Not acknowledge your endless supply of love for, and faith put in, him?_)

You were shouting. You were angry. Furious. Mortified. Because how dare Dean Winchester imply that you wouldn't be a puddle of bone, skin, and blood without him – with him _dead_?

Yes. You'd managed on your own when he left for Purgatory. But that… That was _luck_. You couldn't just do that all again. That was luck, and you were terrified. You couldn't have that snatched away from you again. You weren't entirely sure you wanted "normal" again, anyway.

You tried it twice, and it didn't work out well for you.

And you were tired of trying.

"What if I want to _die_ with _you_, Dean?!"

And what really angered you, was the way he looked at you. His features resigned, his eyes filled doubt, as if he was trying to convince himself that you wouldn't fall apart without him.

(_You're wrong_!)

And then you whimpered – actually friggin' whimpered – desperation leaking from every wound it found. (Open and closed.)

"Please don't go…" Every possible ounce of emotion was there, on their backs, legs spread wide open like painted whores. The devotion. The loyalty. The friendship. The unbreakable bond. The anger. The sadness. The hurt. The mortification. The desperation.

And the ever nagging, "You deserve so much than I can give, but I'm too selfish to give us up".

And you remember what happened next, don't you?

He dragged you in closer, kissed top of your (Y/H/C) colored head, and after a silently communicated nod to Sam, he left you anyway.

Dragging your thick trail of emotion behind him.

You were pissy and snappy for the next two days.

* * *

><p>You remember being in the Impala one night – it was after the angels fell, and Sam (Ezekiel) had been in the backseat sleeping the night away. You were just drinkin' your water, flickerin' over the radio stations when you came across the beginning of a particular song that had you weak in the knees.<p>

"Wise men say…"

You were looking out the window, tired as hell, but this was your favorite song for a reason. And the 3-4 minutes of lost sleep were worth it.

"-falling in love with you…"

You sang line after line, always on tempo, always on key.

Now, you were a hunter. You saw the crap mundanes refused to see, saving lives in the process, sand you expected the unexpected.

But when Dean Winchester – Dean Winchester, the Idgit King – started to sing with you, you were thrown the curviest ball ever pitched in forever.

"Shall I stay… Would it be a sin?" His voice was gruff, and slightly raspy. But that was your Dean. Never able to carry a tune if his life depended on it. But in all honesty, you liked his voice. It was deep, and rough, and it had this little drawl to it that sent shivers runnin' up your spine.

"If I can't help… Falling in love with you…" He continued to sing, not in the least paying attention to your bewilderment. And you just watched, and listened… After a while, you had even started to sing with him. The little twitch of his lips let you know he could hear you. Maybe you sounded good to him too?

"Like a river flows… Surely to the sea," you sang softly to Dean, your voice an octave higher.

"Darlin'," he drawled back, smiling like mad. "So it goes…" He dipped his head towards you, his eyes willing you to sing the next line with him. "Some things… Were meant to be."

You wanted to him this friendship was meant to be. You wanted to tell him that meeting you wasn't just him getting lucky. It was fate. Meant to be. You two were meant to be. You, him, Sam – hell, Cas, too. You wanted to explain that his life wasn't just an accident. That it wasn't designed just to be an archangel's meat suit, either.

You wanted to tell him that he was carefully sewn together, made exactly the way he was supposed to be. And by disrespecting that, by claiming he hadn't deserved to be saved, that he wasn't worth dying for – by bombarding himself with all those traitorous lies…

He was threatening a force greater than anything. A force that simple can't be killed.

You _wanted_ to tell him that.

But that would've been putting your love for him right there on the line for everyone and everything to see.

And you couldn't.

And you hated yourself for being so selfish.

So you fingered your gold diamond ring, and sang instead.

"Take my hand," and with one hand on the wheel, he sure enough grabbed yours with the other, as he sang the next line.

"Take my whole life too…"

He grinned as he sang horribly, swinging your intertwined hands with his as if it was the thing to do. "'Cause I can't help falling in love with you…"

You sang the last line alone, your voice soft and wistful.

"'Cause I can't help… Falling in love with you…"

He let go of your hand.

And you fell back to Earth.

"You dig Elvis?"

He thought about it for a while before nodding, that Dean Winchester grin slapped across his lips, "Yeah…" He mumbled.

"I dig Elvis."

That had been one of the best nights of your life.

When Sam woke up (_as Sam_) just a few minutes later, he noticed there wasn't any tension between you and Dean. There was comfortable silence. Both of you anger free. He had even made out how you were leaning against Dean's shoulder. One of his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, tucking you safely into his side.

("Did Hell freeze over?"

"Go the fuck to sleep, Sam."

"I _was_ just asleep, Y/N."

"Well then go back to sleep, bitch."

"Whatever, jerk."

"Asshats.")

* * *

><p><em>*le cries for forever after reading Twist and Shout bc she read Twist and Shout*<em>

_*le cries bc she got no reviews but posts another chapter anyway for the people that like it*_

_*le cries even harder for forever after reading Twist and Shout bc she read Twist and Shout*_

_*le drowns in tears*_


	3. Sixty Six Faces

You had about sixty six faces.

All of them were unbreakable – your facades protected by the fierce walls built up ever since you were younger.

And then…

And _then_ you had met the Winchesters.

* * *

><p>You remember your family.<p>

They had been fucked up – in every sense of the phrase "fucked up".

Your remember how your father had been considerably handsome – in a ragged way, sort of. Nicholas had short black hair that stuck out in every direction thought of. He'd been nice enough as well – flashed you a sweet smile every now and then when he'd see you in the hallway.

But that was only when he wasn't sneaking around with one of his daily sluts.

He thought no one knew he'd crawl through the back door at 3 a.m. He thought no one knew when he'd fuck the whore into Mommy's silk couch, and then send the bitch packing by six. He thought no one knew when he'd take 30 – sometimes 45 – minute showers to get the home wrecker's stench off himself, and have enough time to get to sleep before Mommy woke up at 7.

But you knew.

You remember the first time you caught him.

* * *

><p>Giggling.<p>

Female giggling.

It couldn't've been Mommy; she was asleep – you had checked. Tobias was still asleep as well – you'd checked his room too. The sky told you it around 3 a.m. – that meant Daddy was still at work.

Someone was in your house.

You ducked low, perched silently against the cold poles of the staircase that lead to the living room. You had peered over the railing as you glared through the darkness, trying to force your eyes to adapt.

You saw him – your father – when he turned on the lamp beside the couch. His hair was disheveled, his clothes discarded and abandoned in various places. Underneath him was an unknown woman. Her eyes shut as your daddy rocked into her.

The woman had short, thin, and curly red hair to accompany her fair complexion. She was pretty, sure, but Mommy was way prettier.

You had felt a surge of betrayal rush through you.

_Mommy._

How dare he?! How dare he betray your mother like that?! How dare he betray your family like that?! He was supposed to love Mommy! He was supposed to kiss Mommy!

But the woman under him was most certainly _not_ Mommy.

(_You ended up telling Mommy._

_She deserved to know_.)

* * *

><p>You remember how your mother had been gorgeous. Clarissa had long, thick, frizzy – albeit dyed – blonde hair. She had a petite frame, high cheek bones, not one ounce of unnecessary fat within her body. She had been tall and willowy – like you thought every supermodel should've been. But your mom wasn't a supermodel.<p>

Supermodels didn't let cheating husbands break the down.

Supermodels didn't drink raw vodka from a silver flask every 30 seconds.

"Mommy?" You mumbled softly, raising a groomed eyebrow.

She had turned to you, silver flask raised high at her plump lips. Her eyes were wild, red, and puffy; the skin underneath baggy, mascara smeared across the sides. Her mostly blonde hair – between the black roots, and the tiny silvers sprawled across her hairline – was pulled into a messy bun.

She swallowed another gulp of whatever it was in the flask, before setting it down on the glass coffee table. Wiping her red lips with the back of her hand, she nodded at her daughter, smearing her lipstick along her cheek in the process. "Yes, sweetie?"

You had shaken your head, though.

(_Let 'er get drunk_.)

"Nothin'."

Then she picked up her silver flask, and took another swig.

As you walked away, you realized you had broken your own mother.

_You_ had _broken_ your _own _fucking _mother_.

If you had just kept your mouth _shut_…

If you had just…

If you had just been a better daughter.

If you had just been _better_, then maybe your mother wouldn't've been so brokenhearted.

(_Too late now_.)

Curiosity had killed the _cat_.

But she was a _human_.

So why had it murdered her too?

(_Or maybe that was just you_.)

You remember you had asked her once – why had she drank so much?

The only response you got was cold and harsh,

"_Pretty hurts_."

And then the flask was back at her lips.

* * *

><p>You remember how Tobias had not been sinfully beautiful.<p>

You remember how he had been handsome, at most.

Sluggish jaw. Black, short hair. Acceptable build. He liked to wear blue eye contacts. And mediocre lips - not too thin, but no where near full.

(_He had looked surprisingly well for someone who smoked cannabis_.)

But he was evil to the core.

How did you know?

You were his damned little sister.

He wasn't evil in a brother-to-sister way – _God, no_.

He had tried to drown you when you were younger.

What was someone supposed to call that type of evil?

You had never been a good swimmer.

Almost drowned at least three times.

Mommy had tried to get you swimming lessons, but you had refused. You didn't trust easily anymore – not since Daddy decided Mommy wasn't enough. Every attempt failed of epic proportions, and then Tobias offered to teach you – having won all the swimming competitions he'd ever entered – and Mommy thought he was a God-send.

Tobias was holding you up by the waist in the calm waters. He straightened out your form, guided you through the motion of kicking your legs, and how to move your arms. You watched his reflection with a big smile. Here was your big brother, looking at you as if you were his world. Tobias had held you tight in the water, with brotherly protective promises to never let you fall.

You realized, as the waves caressed your skin, that for the first time in a long while, you had hope.

Hope for yourself. Hope for your mother – even a little for your father.

Your _family_ could be _saved_.

Your _family_ could be _fixed_.

Your family could be fix–!

And then you couldn't breathe.

Water was suddenly gushing into every open hole your body consisted of. The ocean filled you up in small, cold laps.

Drowning you.

You had struggled, thinking maybe Tobias had dropped you just a few inches too low on accident. But when you managed to get onto your back, you saw him.

Tobias.

Grinning down at you sadistically.

His lips had pulled into a sneer, and then his grip on you tightened as he shoved you down a few more inches.

(_Mommy_!)

You couldn't scream.

(_Mommy_!)

You couldn't breathe.

(_Meammy_!)

You struggled for air you knew you weren't going to get.

(_Deamy_!)

You kicked, and thrashed against your brother, only to be rewarded by more water flooding your body.

(_Deany_!)

You could feel burning it in your lungs.

(_Dean_!)

You could feel it freezing in your blood.

(_Dean_…)

* * *

><p>You remember how in public, your family was like a dollhouse kingdom: Picture perfect queen, faithful king, respectable prince, lovely princess.<p>

The public had a way of transforming people, you had learned.

Clarissa and Nicholas had exchanged sweet smiles, and shared even sweeter kisses. Tobias would keep you close, and give you a pat on the head every now and then.

But even as Tobias whispered such slanderous lies into your ears, even as he kicked you down mentally and emotionally, you kept your pretty mouth shut, and behaved like the lovely little princess you were.

(_Who would've believed you anyway_?)

* * *

><p>You remember meeting the Winchesters – well specifically, Sam.<p>

You had been nursing a cup of hot chocolate for over 20 minutes. If the occasion hadn't been so special, you most certainly wouldn't've gone out into the cold to wait for Jess and her unknown boyfriend at 9 p.m.

You hadn't had to wait much longer.

The café doors swung open, and – _fucking finally_ – Jess walked in, this really tall dude with gorgeous hair, and dimples, and hazel puppy dog eyes in tow, and _damn it all to hell_ if he hadn't caught the attention of _everybody_ in the café.

Was that Jess' boyfriend?

That sneaky bitch!

"Jessie!" You called her over, a smile spreading on your plump lips – lips you'd gotten from your mother. Jessica turned towards you, a smug smile on her face as she took in your appearance.

"You've taken my fashion advice, I see." You'd been wearing a dress. It was silver, with a sweetheart neckline, thick black straps, and it reached your knees. Over it, you were wearing a dark green sweater that stopped at the top of your torso – it also happened to match your dark green combat boots. Dresses were as girly as you got. You rolled your eyes, and sat back down. "Shut up, slut."

"You look pretty, whore."

You flashed a pretty smile at your best friend, before turning your attention onto the unknown man. "I know. Now who the hell is this, and why hasn't he run away yet?"

Jess had been wearing a blue sweater that stopped at her thighs. Underneath was a pair of leggings and a jean skirt. An outfit so damn simple, but Jess made it look glamorous – movie-star worthy. You could _never_ pull that off.

Brushing her skirt down, she rolled her eyes. "This," she started smiling wildly, "is Sam Winchester. He goes to Stanford too."

You tilted your head, eyes widening. Well, fuck. Weighing the name inside your brain, before tasting it on your own tongue. "Sam Winchester, right?" The man nodded politely, a smile stretching its way across his face. "Nice to meet you."

If he was good enough for Jessica, then he was good enough for you.

"I'm Y/N."

The next time you saw Sam was at the annual Halloween party.

Jess had gone a nurse. Sam had gone as himself. You had gone as a French maid. It had been fun: Drinking to Sam's scary good intelligence, drinking to your own scary good intelligence. Over the past couple months, you and Sam had gotten considerably close – almost as close as you and Jess were.

He was the brother you always wanted – the one you always needed.

* * *

><p>The first time you met Dean Winchester – Sam's ever so infamous brother – you wanted to punch him in the face.<p>

It was pure instinct. You had been lounging on the couch to Sam and Jess' apartment, dozing off comfortably after getting too drunk and taking a few pain killer pills for in the morning – along with a banana shake. You had seen somewhere that banana shakes helped deplete hangovers. So why not try it out now?

All was right with the world; no puking, no sobriety, and no stress.

And then you heard the door creak open.

Instantly, you were alert.

And apparently, so was Sam.

You could tell it was him by how tall the body was. When his eyes fell on you, you blinked a couple times to get acquainted with the darkness. Then you shrugged your shoulders and quietly stood from the couch. You could see him well enough, and you hoped he could see you. He'd known about the self-defense lessons you took just a couple years back. He knew you could take care of yourself. So you creaked in one direction, he went in the other.

The intruder had gone in Sam's direction sadly.

When deprived of your sleep after getting wasted, you turned into quite the angry drunk.

You heard rumbling, and flew in the direction, and then you heard talking.

"…–ta practice…"

Then rustling.

"…–be not…"

Sam and the intruder had woken Jess up. You followed the light, and ducked into the room. "Sam?" Jess questioned, and you leaned against the other side of the door frame, arms crossed over your tank top.

You tilted your head, the sleepiness swooshing you in one full motion. You took a look at the supposed "intruder", and –

"Who the fuck is that?" You asked obnoxiously as you got a good look at him. He had brown-blackish hair that stuck up in every which way. He had a strong jaw line, and whiter-than-white teeth. He had candy apple green eyes that sparkled with something… Unique.

(_Now he_, you had decided, _was sinfully beautiful_.)

You glared at him and shivered as he licked his lips, his eyes raking over your low cut tank top, and panty-looking-shorts-clad form.

(Your tank top had a picture of Nightwing on it. You'd always found him sexy as fuck – so why not sleep with him too?)

Was he… Was the bastard eye-fucking you…?

"This is–"

"Dean," Green Eyes interrupted Sam. "Dean Winchester. Sammy-boy's big brother."

He eyed your tank top again, and you swallowed thickly, "I – DC Comics is… Life," he admitted softly, flashing a smile so charming, the eye sex looked pale in comparison. You had nodded slowly in response.

Jess had watched the two of you interact, amused, in the least. The silence stretched until Sam gave Dean a small shove.

"Why're you here, Dean?"

"Um – ah – can we – can I talk to you? Alone?" Dean rocked back and forth on his heels, eyeing Sam warily.

You prepared to shoo Jess out of the room when Sam threw you a total 360. "No," he had decided. "Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of Jess, and Y/N."

He gave Sam a considering look before nodding. "Okay – um… Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

Sam gave a sarcastic retort, and you rolled your eyes. You shifted, catching Dean's attention again, before he cleared his throat.

(_Dick_.)

"Dad's on a _hunting _trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

* * *

><p>The last time you saw Jessica was the day of the night she died.<p>

You had dropped her off a few hours earlier that day after a full day of spending time together. You went shopping, talked about Sam, talked about Dean, talked about school, talked about books, movies, fictional characters – talked about everything.

You were on your way to your own apartment when you got Sam's call.

You thought he was playing a trick on you – he had to be. Not four hours earlier had you seen her walk in, and wave goodbye. But regardless, you swerved around, and raced back to her house. Everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine. You'd pull into her drive way, and the house would be standing tall and proud. Just as it always did.

But it wasn't.

The house was burning into ashes.

Fire men were everywhere, as were the neighbors.

You pushed out your own car, and raced for them. Since the area was blocked off, you had to park farther away than you would've liked. You raced for Jess' house, praying to the gods she was okay. Maybe – maybe Sam was just overreacting.

You were breathing hard as you stood in front of Sam and Dean Winchester, depression curling at the bottom of your gut. Jessica was the only thing that kept it away.

"Sam," you began softly, pushing your hair back. "Where's Jessica?"

He looked at Dean before gazing back at you. "Y/N –"

"Sam," you demanded, clenching your fists. Depression curled at the back of your head, preparing to attack. Jessica was one of the main fortresses that kept the sadness at bay. "Where the hell is Jessica?"

(_She's dead_.)

But all you got was silence.

And everything fell apart after that.

You walked away, determined to never talk to the Winchesters again.

* * *

><p>You remember how solemn and quiet your life had been after that.<p>

You had sold your car in favor of buying another apartment. It wasn't much – small, and cute – in your opinion. Charming. The rent wasn't much, and while you were going to Stanford – on full ride – you had decided to get a job.

You worked at the café Jess introduced you to Sam.

Ironic, huh?

But in truth, you missed Jess. And you missed Sam. He had called you endlessly after the incident – (The _incident_. _That's _what you were calling it now?) – but you couldn't. You just couldn't. You knew you were being stubborn, but you were _hurt_. And guiltily you reminded yourself that _so was Sam_.

And he was probably hurting even more than you when one of his support systems had shut down. His girlfriend was _dead_. And his best friend – his _little sister_ had _left _him.

You picked up your phone while you were on break, having enough of all the thoughts. You were going to call him. You were going to call Sam Winchester, you were going to apologize profusely, and you were going to accept whatever penalty you received in turn with earnest.

But all you got was voice mail.

And you _knew_ you had fucked up.

You remember how the guilt had been stabbing you in the stomach without fault.

You had decided to wait for about a week before calling Sam back. Maybe he was busy with his brother? Maybe he was trying to get shit situated? You heard he had decided to take a semester off for "personal reasons", but everyone already knew why. Sam wasn't a crier, but you knew when terrible things happened to people he cared about, he took it to the heart.

You walked outside, phone in hand. If he did pick up, then the customers didn't need to hear of your personal affairs. You dialed his number. You got ringing.

Ringing.

(_He doesn't wanna talk to you_.)

Ringing.

(_He doesn't wanna listen to you_.)

More ringing.

(_He's done with you_.)

Ringing.

(_He hates y_-)

_Ring_–

"Hello?"

He answered! Fuck yes! Yes, yes, yes! Fumbling with the golden heart charm of the necklace your mother gave you, you spoke hesitantly, "Sam?" You mumbled softly, sighing in relief. His voice was gruff, and rougher than you remembered – but it was _Sam_. You walked outside - the customers didn't need to hear your personal affairs. Ruffling, and then silence. Was he with his brother?

"W-Who is this?" You deflated a little bit. He hadn't remembered you? The _fuck_? You knew _damn_ well you weren't _that_ forgettable. "Jesus Fucking Christ Sam; it's only been a week since you officially dropped out."

"Is this – are you – Y/N?"

So he did remember you.

"Yeah…," you breathed back softly. "Been dyin' to talk to you." You could hear his insecure frown. "I… I know you called me but I thought – I thought it was a mistake and I–"

"Sam," you called softly, untying your apron. "I'm sorry. For not returning your calls, for not calling you sooner, for–for leaving you… Especially after–" You cut yourself off. Not yet. Too soon. Too _motherfucking_ soon.

"Y/N."

It was soft and quiet, but stern.

"Let's meet somewhere," he decided. "You name the place, I'll name the time."

His offer hung in the air for not three seconds until you said, "Russo's. I work there now; I could get us a discount." You could hear his dimpled smile. That's where it all happened with you and him. The family tight bond that formed. "This Friday," he had decided after a short while. "7ish good?" You nodded. 7ish was perfect.

Thanks to your generous, generous school schedule, you ended all your classes at 11:45. You started work at 12 p.m. and got off at 6. That gave you enough time to get home, shower – again – throw on another pair of clothes – shit that actually _flattered_ your "to-kill-for" figure – tame your hair, fix your face, and get back–

"Y/N?"

Shit! How stupid were you? He couldn't see you! "Yeah!" You amended, and then you had to cough to cover up your over-excitement. "Y-Yeah… That's… Perfect. See you then." You could hear his eyes roll, "See you then." Then you hung up, walking back inside, while checking the time. Your break was over. You retied your apron, and slid your phone into your pocket.

You were gonna see your Sammy again! You could _fix_ shit. Figure all this out. And you wouldn't be alone anymore.

You wouldn't be lonely anymore.

(_How fucking selfish_.)

* * *

><p>You remember what it felt like to see him again.<p>

He had been wearing flannel, a jacket, jeans, and… Combat boots maybe? His hair was different, you thought – longer, and a little less tamed. He was still your Sam, though: All dimples, and refreshing smile, and taller-than-humanly-possible…

And his brother was with him.

You would've bet your wallet Dean hadn't even bothered to remember you.

"Sam…," you breathed softly. The whole thing felt like a damned soap opera. (_Shit_, no.) But you couldn't help it. Everything had fallen apart. Everything you thought that was going to be permanent vanished. Your friends stopped paying attention to you when you got unresponsive, Sam had left to go with his brother, and you had been so dead set on ignoring him… And then here he was, back to support you. Back to stay with you.

Sam was _back_.

"Y/N," and then the two of you were smiling at each other. "Stop with the eye sex you two. Last time I checked, Sam," Dean's voice went an octave lower, flirty and – as much as it pained you to think – seductive. "I called dibs on this one."

You rolled your eyes with a scoff, "Nice to see you again Dean – wait. You _remember_ me?"

Dean looked honest to God, genuinely offended. "How could I _not_, Ms. DC Comics?" You smiled as they slid into the booth. Sam sat by the window. Dean sat in front of you, "Sam wouldn't shut up about you during the whole drive." Sam sent a look to Dean that could be read as, _You disloyal, bastardly asshat_.

"In case you haven't figured it out yet," Dean leaned forward, cupping his hand against his fan fiction lips. "He's missed you." And your smile grew. Dean's eyes flickered to your shirt, "You goin' Marvel on me, Gwen Stacy?" You rolled your eyes as he eyed your outfit. Well, in his defense, you kinda were:

You had brushed out your hair so it fell in wild, but straight, strands over your shoulders. You pulled the turtle-necked black shirt, and the green overcoat off nicely, according to Dean. You had hiked up the purple skirt, though – so it the waistband wrapped comfortably around waist, but left some to the imagination. Even though you had the heeled, black boots, you were _still_ shorter than Dean.

(_He was 6'1_.)

You had even worn the black head band to separate your bangs from the rest of your hair. The only difference was that your mother had left you a golden heart chained necklace she used to wear all the time, and you wore it all the time too.

"Whatever, asshat," you snapped playfully. "Hopefully I don't get thrown over a bridge," you joked gently, though it was a touchy subject for you. Gwen Stacy was… Never mind. This was about Sam and Dean. It was all on them.

Dean just shook his head, "I'd definitely save you while Sammy took care of the Green Goblin." Sam snorts, rolling his eyes. And you laughed. You laughed even harder because you could actually see it. The two of them, Sam and Dean, fighting the _Green Goblin_, after Dean leads you to a safer place, of course, but not too far so you can witness the awesomeness of their heroism go down in awesome flames.

"Spidey's too amazing for you, Dean-boy."

"Not too amazing if he let his girlfriend die."

You narrowed your eyes at him, "Really?" He just shrugged. "Asshat." He just rolled his eyes.

"I would've dived after her."

You and Dean blinked in surprise as Sam spoke up after a while of silence. You had come to reunite with _Sam_, but all you seemed to be doing was arguing with Dean as if he was a long-time friend.

(_It sure as fuck felt like it, though_.)

"I mean," he began to elaborate. "If she was _that_ important to me, the one thing that kept me from trashing it all, the one thing I kept coming back to… I would've dived after her. Caution to the wind."

You pulled your bottom lip in with your teeth, bit down gently, and then wet both lips with your tongue. The air had gotten heavy silent.

_He was talking about Jess_.

_He couldn't save her._

"DC Comics," you said suddenly, sliding over to be in front of your brother figure. "Who's–" But luckily, the burden of lightening up the conversation doesn't fall on you because the waitress came stumbling in just in time.

"Can I take your order?" She had said, confidence shining in her smile. She was new. She had to be because you hadn't seen her before – even on the nights you took a double shift for the extra cash. She was a redhead, the uniform fit tight to her curves and looked better than it did on anybody else you'd seen wearing it.

(_Even yourself_.)

Her eyeshadow and mascara painted blue eyes trailed to Dean first, suggestion slurring her speech. Her lips were full, and painted a pretty pink, but even with all your insecurities, you had to admit, your lips beat hers. Why were you comparing yourself to her anyway? You did it with everybody. Every girl you'd ever come across. Even Jess –

_Jess_.

Jess had been the one girl to shove those thoughts away, not bring them to attention. She got it out of your head that everyone else was better than you just because they were prettier. It was, like, the 20th century; it was all about _personality_ now anyways.

(_"And even it wasn't," she had said shaking her head with a smile. "You're gorgeous. Take it, and run, okay?"_)

But she was _gone_.

_Dead, _you brutally reminded yourself.

Not gone, but _de–_

"Cherry pie!" Dean shouted at the top of his lungs, being the last to order, but he quieted down after you and Sam scolded him for being so unnecessarily loud.

"…–mn rude," you scoffed, but he just flashed a grin. Sam shook his head, and looked back out the window. The flirty waitress left to register the food, giggling. Like a school girl. God, the things Dean Winchester did to women.

It was seriously irritating.

(_Or maybe you were just jealous_.)

"Sam," you said leaning against your booth seat as his eyes snapped to yours. "Stop being such a fucking mute. Talk to us. Talk to me." He turned to you and shrugged, "What about?" You shrugged right the fuck back, "Anything."

And you did mean _anything_.

* * *

><p>You remember when your apartment had been infected with a vengeful spirit. And <em>shit<em>, if you hadn't known what the fuck a vengeful spirit was.

"Sammy," you started, your voice loud and clear over the speaker phone. Your two idiots were coming over. Since they had leave ever so frequently, and refused to take you with them, the three of you built a compromise. They would come visit you whenever they didn't have to work. Like, it was immediate. They'd let you know ahead of time unless they got derailed or some shit. But that was a rare occurrence.

"I love you – honest to God I do. You are the fuckin' _rain_ to my lightning storm – but you _gotta_ be shittin' me. You like to _dress up dolls_?"

You heard a burst of laughter, before some rustling, and a, "_Dammit_, Sam, I'm driving!"

That was followed by a "_Fuck you_, Dean!"

And then there was a, "I'd dunno about _that_, Sammy, but I'd love to fuck–"

"_DUDE_!"

Then there Dean's voice again, "Sorry 'bout that Y/N. Sammy's seethin' in his car seat." You laughed, shaking your head as you walked towards your kitchen to start making food. You knew that because they traveled a lot, they rarely got a home cooked meal, so when they came over, you'd often make them something from scratch. "You're such a dick!"

You could hear his grin. "But you love me, don't you."

And then Sam kinda – "No she doesn't, jerk!"

"You know it better than you know the back of your own damned hand, bitch!"

"Idiots…" You mumbled concentrating on how to do what for your handmade cherry pie for Dean, and going back to your boiling noodles. They'd never had spaghetti before, apparently. And you wondered how the fuck they grew up as children. But you knew that Sam and Dean's childhood had to be a touchy subject because Sam rarely talked about Dean as it was back at Stanford.

"That's weird," you interrupted their cat fight as you sat the pie crust and its batter in the oven, and gazed around your kitchen.

"What's weird?" They both said in usion.

"Cute," you commented. "My kitchen's fuckin' up. Lights flickerin'– shit!"

"What happened?! Y/N? Y/N! Hurry the fuck up, Dean!"

"It's okay!" You called from the kitchen sink as you rinsed your right hand with cold water. You had dropped the phone after you lifted the top of your spaghetti pot. You had literally _just_ turned the stove fire on… How could it have been hot enough to _burn_ your fucking skin? "It's just… I literally _just_ turned the stove fire on, and I–It burned me."

They were still shouting at each other until, "Y/N?"

It was Dean this time. "I'm okay," you repeated.

"Look," he said his voice dangerously low and serious. "I need you to get out the house right now, okay?"

You frowned. "What? But I just–"

"Just go!"

You trusted Dean. With everything. Your house. Your food. Your life.

(_Your heart_.)

So when he asked you to do something, you did it with pep in your step. He only yelled at you when he was serious as fuck. So this was one of those serious as fuck situations.

You ran for the door. "I'm going!" You told him, but when you got to the bloody thing – "It's locked," you said softly, looking around. You could hear scratching in the walls.

Someone had to be in your house.

You had checked around the hallway corner, but it was empty as shit. No one was there. Not even the trace of someone there. It struck a chord in your brain that maybe this wasn't a _visible_ threat. But that wouldn't make any sense. That was just the imaginative side of your brain screwing with you.

…

Right?

"I'm _scared_, Dean."

"Fuck," he swore loudly. "I need you to go into your kitchen, and get the salt, okay? Get the salt for me, Y/N. I promise you're gonna be okay."

You nodded, feeling like a little girl. "Okay."

"Dean!" You heard Sam shout, "Hurry the fuck up!" And then Dean was soothing you again. "Make a circle with the salt for me, okay? Make a circle with the salt for me and stay inside that circle. No matter what okay? We're around the corner."

You complied, whimpering, "Dean."

"We're around the corner," he promised gently.

But what could they do?

They were just human.

If this was an invisible threat, then what could they do? And what was the salt for?

And then she flashed in front of you just as you finished the salt circle.

_She._

_Flashed._

_Out of nowhere._

"Dean!" You screamed in terror as the woman gazed at you with fury in her eyes. "She's in front of me!"

"Is she in the salt circle?" You just shook your head, words lost. His voiced was fading. What the hell was this bitch doing? "N-No," you replied brokenly. "Is she crossing it?" His voice was meshed with static, but you could scramble a few words. You gazed at the woman as she circled you. "N-No," you mumbled again. "Then I need you to stay. Inside. The. Circle." You couldn't hear him at all; too much static. "I can't hear you!"

"...Stay…" _What_. "...Salt…" _What_? "..._Please_." _What_?!

The line went dead.

Fuck.

Stay. Salt. Please.

_What the fuck_?!

As the woman circled you, you realized that she looked familiar almost. Like you knew her, but you didn't want to remember her. She was dressed in a slightly torn, black dress with beautiful aquamarine gems for jewelry. Years, and years of addiction to something had leaded to her death. You could tell by the way her eyes were sunken in, and her skin drooped. She had been beautiful once. But addiction, as sweetly deceptive as it was, decayed her skin, and made her look way older than she was.

And then you realized with a jolt that her skin looked molted. Like, it had been melted.

Then Sam came bursting through your door, a shotgun in his hands. He shot for the woman, a fierce determination in his eyes. He hit bullseye, and she disappeared. But something in your gut told you she'd be back. He ran straight for you as Dean continued to scope. "Y/N!" He breathed in relief. "Sam!" You sobbed. You'd never been so scared.

You'd _never _been so _scared_.

He wrapped you up in a hug, before looking around the room, inside the salt circle.

"Get 'er outta here," Dean ordered, "I'm right behind you," and you wanted to hug the shit out of him, but you knew now was not the time. Sam dragged you in close, and the door slammed shut just as the two of you reached it, and the woman was behind you – you could _feel_ her presence.

(_What the actual friggin' fuck_?!)

Her hand was raised into the air, nails like talons, and the next thing you knew, they were scraping against your skin. Sam had yanked you to the side, so she only snagged your leg. "Fuck!" You screamed.

"Son of a bitch!" You heard another gun shot, and then Dean was carrying you out, his shotgun in Sam's left hand. "You shoot, and I'll carry her out." Sam kicked down the door, and Dean carried you out. She had sunken her talons in deep, so you had gotten lightheaded as shit as the seconds ticked by. All you knew was Sam and Dean.

"Dean…," you murmured gently. "Sh. Sh. Sh. Relax, Y/N. Relax." He whispered sweet assurances into your ear. "Sammy and I are gonna protect ya, and then we're gonna get you to a hospital, okay?"

"Okay…"

And you didn't know if it was the fear, or the pain, or the amount of blood loss, but you passed out. The last thing that rang in your ears was, "_Dammit, Sam, we're losin' her_!"

* * *

><p>You remember when Sam and Dean came clean.<p>

You had been released from the hospital, but you had nowhere to go. Your house was still under poppin'-up-outta-fuckin-nowhere-threat investigation. And in all honesty, you didn't know if you wanted to go back.

So, Sam – being the loving and caring person he is – suggested that you should stay with them. Only, Dean – being the considerate asshole he is – pointed out that they had nowhere to _stay_. Apparently, they had been sluggin' it out at a hotel near the hospital.

(_"I'm all for it," you had smiled. "I can't walk at the moment – my stitches could open. And then I'd die from the blood loss. So I don't think I should be anywhere alone."_)

And because of Sam's lovely puppy dog eyes, you ended up slummin' with them while they slummed it out in their hotel room.

"So," you said. "What the fuck attacked me?" They both turned to you startled. "Well I know sure as shit it wasn't a human. I locked all my windows, locked my door, everything was sealed shut tight as the last-woman-you-fucked's pussy."

Sam sputtered at your unladylike language. Dean had to struggle to get down his beer, before sending you a bewildered look. "What?" You mumbled, suddenly blushing from the intensity of their attention. "Everyone knows you go through women like I go through money at a bookstore," you said pointedly to Dean. He tilted his head in agreement, and you smiled.

"And you," you turned your gaze to Sam. "Well – to put it simply – you're attractive as fuck." Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his laptop until you spoke again. "Plus," you said the humor from your voice gone. "Getting your leg sliced open by a thing that looked melted changes you."

It was a low move of you – going for the pity party… Trying to guilt trip them into telling you. But if you were going to trust them with anything anymore. They needed to come clean.

"The thing looked melted?" Sam asked, furrowing his eyebrows. And you nodded. "Yeah," you responded slowly, crossing your arms. "Her skin looked like it was drippin', kinda."

After exchanging looks with Sam went back to his laptop, but Dean walked over to you, and sat at the bottom of the hotel bed.

He handed you his beer, which was half full. "Alright, Y/N," he started, his green eyes looking into your soul. "We'll tell you."

"Why do I need this?" You asked, gesturing to the beer. Dean just shrugged. "You'll see."

And come clean they did.

(_You ended up downing the half of the beer of what Dean gave you, and three more_.)

* * *

><p>You remember when you had found out that the spirit hadn't been haunting the apartment.<p>

_It_ had been haunting _you_.

And the spirit wasn't even an '_it'_ anymore.

She was your fucking _mother_.

And she blamed _you _for her death.

Your mother had been haunting you.

_Your mother had been trying to kill you._

She had been trying to burn you like she burned after you left.

(_What a blow to the heart that was_.)

After Sam had done a little bit of digging, he found out about your house fire. After you had been accepted in to Stanford, because you were a first year, you had to stay on campus. Second year, you bought an apartment. You left your family –

You left your _mother_.

You had planned to visit during the holidays, but it had been too late. Tobias, stuck in a compromised state, had set the house on fire. And your mother, drunker than humanly possible, didn't know what was going on until her flesh was melting away. Your father had been asleep – so he had died the same exact way. Tobias died of suffocation before the fire melted the skin off his bones.

(_You had to do it with a fucked up leg, too_.)

But you had your mother's locket. The only way to get rid of her was to melt the locket. So, you melted the locket with the burning flames of resentment, and the drowning waves of guilt.

(_You murderer_.)

* * *

><p>You remember when you first shared a bed with Dean.<p>

You jolted awake with a start. You would fall asleep, and then jolt awake after a few hours. It was like insomnia and sleep were battling it out in your body, and insomnia just refused to throw in the towel.

You rubbed your eyes to be met with darkness. Not even moonlight. Not even stars. Just total, complete, and terrifying darkness.

And it was _killing_ you.

How the fear of the dark was starting to install itself in your head.

That's when Dean emerged from the bathroom in all his half-clothed glory, dressed in his jeans that clung desperately to his hips. Unfortunately, his button had been undone, and you couldn't stop yourself from staring because _fucking shit_–

"Y/N?" Dean said, his voice gruff. "You okay?" You nodded sleepily, "Mhm…" He sat on the edge of your bed. "You sure? 'Cause I'll wake up Sammy and we can hi–"

"No! No... No. Don't wake up Sam. He needs his sleep." You scowled, "You do too." He shook his head, taking your hand into yours. He rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand gently, smiling through the darkness. His green eyes pierced the black. "You need sleep too, y'know." You shake your head.

"I just…"

He nodded, and uncharacteristically brought your palm to his lips, and pressed a kiss.

(_Since when did Dean Winchester become charming_?)

"I had nightmares after my first hunt too. You learn to bear with them after a while."

You swallowed thickly, and shook your head. "Dean," you mumbled brokenly. "I'm _scared_." It was true. You were scared. You were angry. You were guilty. You were - you were going _insane_. "I'm right here," he said softly, stroking your hair. "Gwen Stacy. I'm right here." He shifted closer and pulled you into his chest.

"And M'not gonna let you fall."

You rested your head against Dean's right shoulder as he slid down to lay against some pillows. He shifted again, turning on his side, and then your head was against the soft pillows. He pulled your good leg between the both of his, and rested your bad one on top. He nuzzled into your neck with a soft sigh. You pulled your left arm up, rested your head against it, and threw the other over Dean's shoulder. He slipped his available arm over your waist, and tugged you closer.

(_Dean started to hum something, and you could've sworn it sounded like 'Hey Jude' by the Beatles_.)

* * *

><p><em>*le cries because she got a reviewer*<em>

_*le cries because she's so in love with that reviewer*_

_*le thank you to that one reviewer*_

_*le thank to you to those who favorite*_

_*le thank you to those who followed*_

_*le cries because of how sappy Dean Winchester is to you*_

_*le cries because you two just totally had a chick flick moment*_

_How'd you like your backstory?_


	4. Of Breakdowns and Castiel's Arms

You remember the first time you had a legit break down.

It had been that _tears gushing, depleting frustration, snotty nose, waning anger, a little bit of drool, puffy and bloodshot eyes, heaving, screaming, sobbing, pulling at your hair_ type of shit.

And it had just so happened to be held within Castiel's arms.

* * *

><p>Castiel had come sauntering into the bunker, looking for his favorite Winchester, and you knew why. Because <em>of course<em> Dean would tell his angel bestie about Ke–

Instead of finding Dean, the angel stumbled across you.

You were holding a glass half filled with vodka, your head bowed as you thought about how pretty the floor looked. You were dressed in a pair of socks, a pair of black leggings, and a sweater three sizes too big for you that read _Billy Jean_. You had been so caught up in your own distress that you hadn't even noticed him until he spoke.

"Y/N?" He mumbled, his voice deep and hypnotic. You weren't attracted to Cas – _not_ that he wasn't attractive, because he _was_ – but his voice was soothing, even when raspy. Kinda like Dean's–

(_Dean_.)

You whipped around, and pushed off the couch, the sight of him surprising you. Last update you had on the angel, he'd been pretty far away.

"Cas," you responded with relief. "Haven't seen you in a while, buddy." He nodded solemnly, and you took the time to really take in his features because damn it all to Hell, if you were going to break into pieces, you were going to take someone else's world with you. "Dean's in the uh - Dean's in the dining - the dining room, I think. You can go - you can go if you want."

(_Translation: Dean just had a rampage in the dining room, and he needs you_.)

"How have you been?" He asked instead, and his blue eyes flickered over you warily, concern filling them as blue iris. He began to make his way over to the couch. "Considering what happened to Sam and Kevi–"

"Castiel," you sang, a dangerous warning in your lighthearted tone. He stopped walking, and his hands began to fumble with his trench coat. His eyes, instead of ricocheting across the room like before, attentively scoped your face.

"_Don't_."

You hoped Castiel took heed; otherwise you'd have to punch the everlasting shit out of him.

The angel shifted uncomfortably, but too stubborn to give up completely, he repeated his original question. You sat back down on the couch, and tossed the rest of the vodka back with a mental _Bottoms Up_. "How've you been?"

(_Tired. Hurt. Angry. Broken. Useless. Hollow. Frustrated. Terrified. Should I go on_?)

"I've been okay, Cassy."

(_Translation: I've been absolutely _shattered_, Castiel._)

The angel scoffed – the fuck? Since when did _Cas_ know how to _scoff_? Maybe he learned a long time ago... Maybe you just never paid enough attention. Maybe he never scoffed at you, so you rarely paid mind? – and nudged you. "I am an Angel of the Lord," he said, clicking his tongue in slight distaste. "I believe it incredibly rude of you to undermine my intelligence by spewing such obvious lies at me."

You had to do a double take because since when did Castiel become that sassy? The sass game was respectively strong.

"Cassy," you mumbled back in turn, a small smile on your lips. "M'fine. Really. I swear. Dean's in the – uh – Dean's – Dean's in the dining – the dining room – I think... You can go if you want to."

(_Translation: Castiel please _fix_ me_.)

He snorted, before snatching your arms carefully, shoving your sweater sleeves up, and revealing your wrists.

The wrists turned ugly and ruined by the woman who donned them. The wrists that were covered in scars, and fresh blood, and bandages, and dried blood, and – and _words_.

Ever since _Kevin_ – and then Ezekiel hadn't even _been_ Ezekiel – and _Sam_ was gonna be _so pissed_ – and that was _if_ you, Dean, and Cas could even _get _Sam back – and _Dean_ – and – and – and – and _it had all had been taking a serious toll on you_.

Everything had been spiraling out of control.

Everything had _already _spiraled out of control.

So you had gotten_ creative_ with some spare knives and razor blades.

"Why are you destroying yourself?" Castiel demanded angrily, eyes stormy as he began to heal the scars and wounds. You thought about it for a while, before responding.

"Because then at least I'll beat some bastard monster to the punch."

He stared at you, eyes wide, and mouth slightly agape. You could tell he hadn't been expecting the answer you gave.

You realized, that in a way, you had disappointed Castiel. And you had fucked up with Sam. And you had left Dean all alone to grieve by himself. And you had let Kevin die. And you –

And you were a _fucking failure_.

And then you had started to cry.

Tears slipped down your cheeks as your body had begun to shudder and shake, trembling with stress, and frustration, and sadness, and anger, and everything negative.

And then it all began to tumble out.

You're anger at Dean because he refused to let you have a say in the angel-possessing-Sam situation. The story you and your nerd, Kevin Tran. How you and him had gotten impossibly close after so little time. The devastation of watching him die at the hands of an angel gone rogue, unable to lift a motherfucking finger. Your worry for Sam – _if there was even still a Sam_. Your guilt for Dean because you had left him alone in your grief with the excuse that _grief makes people selfish_.

How this time there was no Bobby to make everything a little bit more bearable. There was no Sam to wrap you up in one of his lung crushing, moose hugs. Hell – at this point, there wasn't even a _you_ to tell yourself that _everything would be okay in the end, and if everything wasn't okay, it wasn't the end_. You had long lost yourself in booze, books, and music - and sometimes blood.

You told Cas everything. How you were _so in fucking love with Dean motherfuggin' Winchester_. How Sam was practically your brother at this point. You even told Cas how you felt about_ Cas_. You spilled everything to him – personal, not personal, whatever – told 'im the when's, blunted the how's, asked the why's, answered the what's.

You even let it slip how you couldn't live anymore – not in the hunting life. But that didn't matter because you'd somehow manage to get reeled back in.

You always did.

And Cassy-angel just pulled you into his chest, and allowed to fall as graceful as Lucifer himself must have when Michael banished him to the Cage.

He witnessed the unfathoming of you first hand, only to rub your back, and allow you to fall even faster as response.

You sobbed, and heaved, and smeared your snot all over his trench coat, and soaked through his shirt with your tears, and screamed, and whimpered, and rambled about the good 'ol days, and ranted about the terrible present, and clung, and withered apart, and crashed to the ground, and _came undone_.

He watched as everything slowly split you apart, atom by atom.

And Castiel must've felt it before you could even begin to comprehend it because he glued you back together as much as he possibly could with soft touches, and tight hugs, and silly jokes.

Just another reason to be so _fucking grateful_ for your guardian angel.

("_You're hurting," he observed softly. "But it will get better." He rubbed up and down your back with thick, warm palms. _

_"__But because you're practically a Winchester, I guarantee you'll make it through."_

_He smiled at you, something warm and pleasant shining in his eyes as blue iris and black pupil. _

_"__And everything will be okay again, I promise."_

_"__Don't make promises you can't keep, Castiel."_

_"__I never do_.")

* * *

><p>You remember when you met Jace.<p>

It had been the summer Dean and Cas disappeared.

And quite the contrary to the belief, he hadn't been one of your patrons.

In fact, you had met in a 7/11. And quite the contrary to _another_ belief, it had _not_ been love at first sight.

* * *

><p>People were <em>dicks<em>.

"C'mon, dude!"

You were already having a shitty day, and this bullshit was really _not_ helping.

You were just not in the mood.

But what kind of woman would be when she had to wash the red sea from her sheets at two o'clock in the fucking morning?

_E-fucking-xactly_.

That, in itself, was terrible enough – but, no. The angels wanted to be even _more_ dicks than usual, and had decided to give you not only your period – on an _unexpected _day, in the _early morning_ – but a _fierce_ headache and abdominal muscle crushing cramps to have bacon burgers and milkshakes with it.

You gritted your teeth in pain, another wave of irritation washing over you as you argued with the shitty cashier.

"Sorry, miss," Mr. Shitty threw a sleazy smile your way and you scoffed in disgust. "You need to pay the full amount."

Cuffing the sleeves of Dean's flannel shirt in your palms, you slid your hands through your hair and tugged in frustration. "Can't I just - dude I'm just two dollars short!"

The cashier shrugged, amusement shining in his eyes. Your temper flared. People just did _not_ know who they were fuckin' around with sometimes.

_"_Maybe you should come back later with the full amount," the cashier snickered and if you weren't trying to get right with Jesus, his head would have been rolling across the fucking counter like the shitty Leviathan trash he was.

(_Well, damn_.)

"Please," you sighed exasperatedly. You'd never cry in front of strangers, but you weren't above begging. "I'm really tight on time already, and I just really want a slushie so if you could please just let me g-"

"_Nope_." Cashier popped the _p_, and a dash of spit slapped you in the cheek.

By the al mighty archangel Michael, shit could not get worse. Shit, God would probably have to send Michael down to stop you from the havoc you were about to cause to the poor, idiotic cashier, and the poor, poor witnesses.

"I'll pay for it."

You turned around, an eyebrow raised. Who was your hero today? Maybe Sam had come to find you about to rip off this dude's head.

On a normal day, you would've blushed. He was… _Jesus Christ_. He almost took your breath away as much as Dean.

(_Almost didn't count_.)

He had shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes – it wasn't nearly as long as Sam's, though – electric blue eyes that weighed with unspoken intensity. And he had scruff – how cute. He was attractive – for damn sure – but that didn't mean he wasn't one of the four types of dicks.

(_Level 1: The Things that Go Bump in the Night: Vengeful spirits, shape shifters, vampires, werewolves, etc._

_Level 3: Demons: Self-explanatory._

_Level 4: Gods/Angels: Too long to fit._

_Or he could just be a Level 2: A human.)_

"Huh?" The cashier was definitely smart.

"I said I'll pay for it," Attractive Guy's voice was gruff, and his lips were tilted down. He probably had a lot of shit to do. He looked like a busy man, all waistcoats, and button ups, and ties.

Attractive Guy eyed you down warily, and you were kind of intimidated. But mostly you were just overwhelmed with _Dean, Dean, Dean_. "If you'll let me that is."

You blinked in surprise. From what you heard, most guys didn't give women that type of choice. "What's it gonna cost _me_?" You asked. There was some kind of catch, right? There was always some kind of catch.

He stared you down for a while, before tilting his head. He rubbed his fingerless gloved hands together, before shoving them into his pockets with a shrug. His eyes were shining with amusement. Oh, so he thought this shit was funny?

"A cup of coffe, maybe?"

You blinked in surprise. This dude was actually gonna- you bit your lip, mulling the idea over, before finally just nodding. "Sure." You shrugged. "Why the hell not, right?" You had nothing to lose.

"M'Jace, by the way," you watched with as Jace threw you another grin, this time leaking with confidence, before taking out his wallet and slapping 5 down on the counter. "Jace Holland."

(_Just who the fuck was this dude_?

_Jace Holland, apparently_.)

"Can I get a name?" Jace asked, leaning against the counter as the shitty cashier slid his change the counter. "It'd be weird if I just kept callin' you _pretty lady_ the entire time." That earned him a smile. He was a flirt, then? Kinda like-... Kinda like Dean.

"Y/N," you said, shoving your own hands into your pockets. "(Y/F/N) (Y/L/N)."

"A pretty name for a pretty girl."

You sputtered with laughter, because everything about him literally just screamed _Dean, Dean, Dean_.

(_Oh, the fuckery.)_

He was watching you with nervously twitching lips.

"What'd I say?" You shook your head, though. He didn't need to know about your history. "Nothing. Just. Thank you - for the compliment, I mean. And thank you so much for the bracelet, by the way." He shrugged again with his lips pulled into a smile. And you bit your bottom lip again, this time a little bit harder to keep from screaming. His mouth was all soft-looking, plump lips and straight, white teeth "I like helping people."

(_How funny 'cause that's kinda how I ended up here, in this town, all alone, broken and defeated_.)

The cashier called up the next customer, and Attractive Guy - _Jace_, you reminded yourself viciously - to the items he wanted to purchase out of his pockets, and set them on the counter. The cashier rolled his eyes in annoyance.

(_Now who's winning, mothafucka_!)

Your phone rung - _thanks for the memories even thought they weren't so gre- _you checked the message, and scowled when you saw it was Sam. He was waiting at your apartment, and he needed Baby back. The lil' fuck. How'd he even _get_ to your apartment? The mysterious shit these Winchesters pulled.

"Holland," you said softly, tasting his name on your tongue. "My brother just sent me a text, and he needs me so, can we postpone our coffee thingy?"

Jace grinned again, his eyes wild and darkened a shade. "But of course, pretty lady." That earned him another laugh.

After paying his own shit off, he walked you to the Impala. He was making you smile. The only people that could do that were either dead, missing, or a couple miles away.

"Y/N," he flashed another smile, but this time you had your shit together. (_Ha_!) You smiled back genuinely, tucking a strand of hair behind your hair as you ducked into the driver's seat. "Holland," you said with a playful coldness.

"Oh! How you wound me so!" That earned another laugh.

"You should laugh more," he said randomly. You stared up at him in shock, an eyebrow raised. "I should?" He nodded. "Why's that?" He shrugged, smiling this really smug smile, "Because it's a really pretty sound." Was he smirking now? "And you look quite beautiful when you light up like the stars."

Blushing unwilling, and suddenly flushing with white hot annoyance - or was it embarrassment? It was most likely embarrassment. - you shoved your way into the seat, and hissed at him, before slamming the driver door shut. "Good_bye_, Holland."

"Bye _pretty lady_!"

You could still hear his voice for miles for after you drove off.

* * *

><p><em>This makes me wanna write a whole 'nother fanfiction about you and Jace.<em> _Meh. This chap's shorter than usual. Sorry, next one'll be better. (I hope.)_


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